The Just
by Queen Edmund Pevensie
Summary: King Edmund is called the Just long before Susan is called the Gentle. Lucy doesn't become the Valiant Queen until she's at sixteen, and Peter isn't Magnificent until the very end of their reign. But Edmund is the Just within a month of their coronation. It starts with a trial.
1. Part One

Within a month, there are whispers about King Edmund floating around Cair Paravel. Not the ones about the White Witch and her special pet who sold out his family for sweets, though _those _whispers hang around until the very last days of his reign; these were whispers of an entirely different nature.

King Edmund is called the Just long before Susan is called the Gentle. Lucy doesn't become the Valiant Queen until she's at sixteen, and Peter isn't Magnificent until the very end of their reign. But Edmund is the Just within a month of their coronation.

It starts with the trial of all the captured soldiers on the Witch's side two weeks after Aslan leaves. Peter squirms uncomfortably in his throne as he listens to their testimonies and the advice of Narnia elders. Edmund is only nine, but he sits still and grim. He lets it all sink in, and when they're finally alone, Peter turns to his brother and asks, "What _are_ we to do, Ed?"

Edmund bites his lip and thinks about it for a moment. He thinks of Aslan's golden mane and velvet paws, of his ferocious roaring voice, and his rough tongue against Edmund's face. Edmund sighs. "Those who acted or spoke violently towards us ought to be exiled," he says at last. "The rest should be released."

"And if they prove to be treacherous?"

"It's surprising what an act of mercy does to a person," Edmund says. "And, make it clear that there will be no second trial, should they try and turn against us."

The decision doesn't make either of them very popular at first. Edmund is thought to be sympathizing with the enemy, but he keeps his head held high, and he tries not to listen to the scathing rumors and whispers that follow him down the halls. Eventually, the Narnians stop criticizing him and start praising him. "That's a boy who learns," they say. "A _true_ follower of Aslan."

A month and a half into their reign, they get wind of a group of the Witch's loyal supporters rising up in the deep, wild parts of the Lantern Waste. Peter and Edmund head out with one hundred men at once. Peter wants to take more, but Edmund is very firm on this matter. He doesn't know why, but he tells Peter that he has a bad feeling. One hundred soldiers is a lot of men, and if they take more, they could be seen as threatening innocent Narnians for their past mistakes. Peter scoffs at the idea that a group of rebels in the wildest parts of Narnia could be innocent, but he agrees on one hundred. They leave early on a Sunday morning, before the sun is up. On Tuesday afternoon, Peter and Edmund meet one-hundred-and-fifty Fell Beasts in battle.

The battle is not out in the open, as their first battle had been, but among the densest trees. Peter and Edmund's one hundred Narnians are not prepared for the Beasts' attack in the woods, and these rebels don't fight fair. The battle carries on well into the night, and Peter says they have to pull out. Edmund thinks there is no chance of escape.

"I wanted to bring more men," Peter reminds Edmund bitingly, and it's all Edmund can do to stop from getting at it with Peter. It's early Friday morning and they're in their tent. There's about three or four of these tents clustered tightly together surrounded by a tiny, hurriedly made wall. It's not doing as such a great job keeping enemies out as they had hoped, and no one has had much more than six hours of sleep total in the past couple of days. Edmund won't be ten for another three weeks and he's running on two hours of sleep, and Peter is glaring at him like he used to, back in England when Edmund did something to upset Mum. Edmund is s sore and miserable, and he knows he made a mistake insisting that _less_ was _more_, and he has no right getting angry at Peter at a time like this, but he can't help.

He also can't help thinking they won't escape if they retreat now. They'll be in more danger, _he knows it._

"We can't go on like this, Ed," Peter insists. "We have to get out of here."

"We'll all be killed, Peter. Aren't you listening?"

"We'll all be killed if we _stay_, Edmund!" Peter says. He raises his voice a little, and he called Edmund by his full name."Edmund," not just "Ed." Two whole syllables. Peter is tired too, and people keep asking him questions. Everyone is turning to their kings to find out what their next course of action will be. Especially since the last wave of attacks. Last night, the Fell Beasts got a hold of a huge chunk of their rations. No one is coming until Sunday at the earliest. They'll come with more men and more supplies, but they haven't been able to get word to Cair that they need reinforcements now. All the messengers have been eaten. Edmund thinks they can stick it out. Peter doesn't think they'll last that long. He hasn't given anyone an answer, and it's a bad thing to lose the faith of the people a month and a half into ones reign. "We have to try to get out of this wood, at least. Draw them out into the open." He drags a tired hand over his tired face and stares at the map of Narnia unfurled in front of his feet.

"They'll pick us off in a retreat, Peter. If we move, they'll trap us," Edmund tells him.

"We're trapped now!"

"Peter, listen to me!"

"_Why_?"he asks. "How do you _know_?" Peter throws his hands up in the air.

"What?"

"How do you know that's what's going to happen, Ed?" Peter demands. "How do you know that they'll ambush us in a retreat?"

"Because…" Edmund stutters. "I –I don't know! It's just a feeling." Edmund's turning very red, and he doesn't know if it's from anger or frustration or embarrassment.

Peter laughs, short, sharp, unfriendly, and Edmund can feel his own defenses going up. Blood pounds through his head and his throat tightens up. He clenches his fists and bites his lip so hard he breaks the skin and tastes his own blood in his mouth. _"A feeling?" _Peter laughs again. "God, Edmund, it's because you had a feeling why we're stuck out here in the first place. It's because of your feelings that these creatures aren't dead. Dammit, Ed, it's a feeling why you went over and left us for the Witch in the first place!"

There's only two other people with them –the centaur, Orieus, and a panther named Inad. They both grow very still and the air stops circulating in the tent right at the end of Peter's last word. It seems like hours before Inad says in her deep, velvety voice, "General Orieus, the sun is nearly up," and slinks out of the tent to attend to her duties. It's even longer before Orieus stamps a hoof and leaves them alone.

Neither of them have much to say now. They're stuck in a familiar dance and neither of them wants to be the one to bow out first. But Edmund's much younger and much more tired than Peter, and he's been think the same thing since the first attack two and a half days ago. He feels like crying but he's not going to. He feels screaming and hitting and punching but he's not going to do that either.

"That's not _fair_, Peter," he says after some time. "That's so unfair."

"I'm not being fair, Edmund," Peter says. It's his whole name again, two syllables, three times in one conversation. Peter's mad at him. Peter's really mad at him, and try as he might, Edmund can feel himself getting angry too. "People are dying because of your calls! When is it going to stop?"

"You asked for my help!" Edmund sputters. "You asked me! It's not fair!"

"Yeah, well, being fair is your department isn't it, Edmund?" Peter's drawing himself up to his full height in a way Edmund can't stand, that takes Edmund back to England and the air raids and before he met Aslan. His chest constricts. "Those nice things all the Narnians say about you, if we make it out of here alive, they won't be saying them in anymore." Edmund's eyes begin to sting and his face twists into a nasty scowl, but Peter ignores him. "We're leaving at midday, and that's final. Get some sleep if you can."

Peter leaves the tent, the canvas flapping angrily after him.


	2. Part Two

Edmund doesn't even try to get any sleep. They leave at midday, during a break between attacks, but they've only moved a couple hundred of meters when their brief reprieve comes to an end. A shower of arrows rains down upon them from the trees. A few of their birds fly high above the tree tops and the squirrels and other animals scamper into the branches as soon as the first arrow is fired, but the smaller ones are tossed down to the ground. Some of them squeak when they hit and roll over. They skitter away under the many hooves and claws and feet of the tired, trampled Narnian army, but others lay broken at the foot of the tree they were thrown out of, limp, lifeless, and bloody. A couple of the fallen land on Narnian heads.

Orieus and Inad are in the lead and they don't stop, pretending that leaving their dead behind to rot or be defiled doesn't bother them. Peter and Edmund are in the rear. Their tired, human-child legs can barely manage to keep up, but Peter calls up to his soldiers trudging dutifully along, "To the Stone Table! Out to the open! They're not prepared for war in open space!" Their young king's voice at their backs seems to keep the Narnians' spirits up, and their feet marching along that same path Peter and his sisters took during a winter not yet forgotten.

It doesn't do much for Edmund, though. He never realized how much shorter he was than Peter. Every couple of minutes, Peter's hand finds its way to Edmund's shoulder, pushing him forward so he keeps up. Edmund's too tired to mind.

"You were right," Edmund says at one point. They've been marching for hours now. They daren't stop lest they are ambushed. Peter is worried about ambush now too. He's watching the skies and the trees vigilantly, while keeping his hand on Edmund. To make sure he doesn't get lost, he tells himself. "This is my fault."

"You weren't wrong, Ed," Peter promises. "Just…I dunno, ill-advised. Your heart was in the right place." Edmund doesn't answer. He's half asleep, letting the pressure of Peter's hand on his shoulder guide him, weighed down by hot armor in the humid summer afternoon. "Did you sleep at all?" Edmund shakes his head. Peter looks back up at the trees. "We'll stop soon," he promises. "Once the sun starts to set."

They stop as soon as it's dark, in the same glade they had left behind hardly two months earlier. The outline of the Stone Table itself is visible from where they pitch their camp. It takes less than an hour for the Narnians to get settled. Their camp is sturdier than it was in the woods. There are no trees hiding enemies, and they can see at least a mile away from here, up on the hill of the Stone Table.

Edmund and Peter set up their tent closest to the Table. They sit in silence inside the tent in the darkness, both pretending that they are asleep. Edmund, who had been so tired on the way over, is now wide awake. The Stone Table casts a shadow inside the tent, and Edmund feels every inch of it that falls on him, like it's pricking him from the inside out.

A second shadow falls across Edmund's face. It's moving, but it's not the confident trotting of Orieus or the unabashed prowling of Inad. It's different, lurking. Edmund shudders and looks over to Peter, and considers waking him up.

And then what? he wonders. Tell him that he's got a bad feeling? That he's afraid of the dark? Peter will laugh. Peter's already mad at him. Peter's already got enough reason to be mad at him.

It's not until the shadow passes his tent a second time, slower, silent, and menacing, he wakes him up anyway. Peter sits up. "Go back to sleep, Ed," Peter groans, rubbing his eyes. "We don't know what's going to be waiting for us in the morning."

He wants to tell Peter of the shadow that couldn't be any Narnian, but he can't make it seem like it's nothing more than a nightmare. Maybe it is nothing more than a nightmare. He stares at the inside walls of the tent, biting his lip. "I can't sleep," Edmund admits instead. It's true, maybe truer than Edmund thinks.

Peter groans again. "You were the one falling asleep on the march, Ed."

"I – I know, Peter, but –" Edmund breaks off, and looks at his hands. "I can't sleep now. I thought I _saw_ something." The words tumble out of his mouth before he can stop himself, and his heart stops, waiting for his brother's reaction.

Even in the dark, Edmund can see Peter purse his lips, forcing himself not to say the same things he had said earlier. "What did you see, Edmund?" Peter asks with a great amount of purpose.

"_I don't know_." Peter sighs. "I don't know!" Edmund insists. "A shadow!"

"You saw a shadow?" Peter repeats impatiently. "In the dark?"

"Not a familiar shadow, Peter," Edmund says as calmly as he can manage, but he's getting angry. "Not, like, Orieus's shadow."

There's a long pause in which Peter looks over Edmund's shoulder at the shadow of the Stone Table, and Edmund bites his lip so hard he begins to break skin. They're both waiting, anticipating something, anything. For Edmund to lash out and explain himself, or for Peter to tell Edmund he's wrong, force him to go back to bed. But even though they're both so young, they're both trying very hard to make up, and it's not easy to do when they fall back into their old routine, just as they had this morning.

Finally, Peter sighs again and says, "It could be anything, Ed," tiredly, choosing each word carefully, like the wrong word might set his brother off, and for all Edmund knows, it might. But Peter's not nearly as good at choosing his words as Edmund is.

"That's the problem," Edmund says. "It could be _anything." _

A stillness falls over the tent, and just like earlier, the shadow does too, and Peter thinks he sees it then. It's not the silhouette of someone familiar, and although it doesn't mean it's necessarily malicious –it could just be a cloud for all either of them know –Peter can't help but stop breathing for a second when he realizes that Edmund's right; it could be anything.

"I'll go check it out, then," Peter says after a long pause. "It's the only thing one can do." He stands up and grabs Rhindon, hooking it around his waist. "I'll be right back." He heads towards the flap of the tent, patting Edmund on the shoulder as he passes.

"I'll be coming with you," Edmund insists, standing up.

"No," Peter says, stopping, turning, and pushing hard on Edmund's shoulders so that he sits back down in his hammock. It sways beneath him, back and forth, and as it comes towards him, Peter's surprised that Edmund doesn't leap up from it and pounce on top of him. But he doesn't. He just sits, swinging back and forth, back and forth.

"Why not?"

Peter rolls his eyes; Peter's whole body moves when he rolls his eyes, and Edmund wonders if Peter's exaggerating the movement because it's dark. "Because you need to sleep," he answers, and ignores any other protests that come from Edmund's direction.

Outside of the tent, there's nothing but darkness, and trees, and a couple of stars. There's the soft pad of tired footsteps and the quiet concerned voices of Narnians that seem rather far away to Peter. There's the occasional pop of the fire, but other than that, it's quiet and still. Peter turns to go back into the tent. He can see Edmund's shadow against the canvas lining, waiting attentively for him.

Then, he's hit hard from behind. He cries out in pain, and the entire Narnian army seems to rush to his side in a massive, frothy wave, Edmund at their lead, crying out, "Peter! Peter!"

Peter gets up, a little dizzy. At his back is a wolf, a huge, nasty, gray wolf, with bright yellow eyes that glint off the fire light eerily. It growls at Peter, but Peter bares his teeth and draws his sword. The distinct sound of scraping metal amongst the clamor that has erupted around them comes from Peter's right. There stands Edmund, panting, his arm sagging a little from the weight of the sword in his hand, his armor thrown on his body lopsided, but he's mirroring Peter's stance and expression, and Peter is mirroring Aslan's the best he can.

"Are you okay?" Edmund asks Peter. Peter nods. They both stand, watching the wolf growl and spit. Tension builds in its back legs and then releases as he considers his options. He doesn't seem to have any. He looks around, but he can't find anything that will help him. The uproar that was so loud just moments ago settles to a low rumble, every soldier watching the wolf with trepidation, until Edmund sucks in a sharp little breath of air and gasps, "I don't want to alarm anyone." The entire army diverts their attention towards Edmund, who looks very, very young in his armor and sword and sweaty hair and cut up face. But he won't look away from the wolf, whose yellow eyes are darting around every crevice of the solid wall of Narnians around him, and Edmund's voice is perfectly still, and perfectly clear. "I don't want to alarm anyone," he repeats. "But I think our friend here isn't looking for a way out, but for _his _friends." The rumble grows into a quiet thunder but no one moves. Edmund tears his eyes off the wolf turns towards Orieus, who had come up two or three paces behind Peter.

Peter turns too. "Didn't you hear him?" he asks. "They're in the camp!"

The understanding breaks upon the mob like a crack of lightning, and Orieus' booming voice is the only thing that keeps them from breaking into chaos, and once he has the army sorted, he takes the kings and the rogue wolf aside, closer to the Stone Table, rising menacingly before them in the dim fire and moonlight. For a heart stopping second as Orieus kicks the wolf another several feet towards the table, Edmund wonders if he's going to execute him there, and he almost speaks up, but they stop before he gets the chance.

"What is your name, Beast?" Orieus asks, but the wolf only snarls.

Peter is still gripping his sword and locks eyes with the wolf. "I am your king, and Orieus is my general," he growls. "You will answer us." His knuckles are turning white in the light against his sword. "What's your name?"

"Not for the nasty human ears of traitors and heathens," the wolf sneers. Peter tries to take a step closer to the wolf, but Orieus puts an arm out to stop him. He's panting, snarling just as wide as the wolf.

"I'm not a traitor," Peter says. Edmund's heart sinks.

"Very clever, king," the wolf laughs. "I'm not talking about you. I'm talking about your silent brother." Edmund doesn't move. He doesn't remember ever being able to move.

"Edmund's not a traitor, either," whispers Peter. No one moves or makes a sound, except the wolf, who lets out a gravelly laugh. There's the sound of battle a little ways off and the sound of the wolf laughing, but there's no other sounds.

Then, Edmund begins laughing too. He doesn't know why. It starts off in small, timid chuckles, with his eyes glued to the Stone Table the whole time, imagining Aslan walking up those steps with his head held high, letting the Witch sheer him, tie his great paws, stab a knife through his magnificent heart. His laughter grows a little louder, a little more confident. He remembers being tied so tight against the tree his mouth is still sore and burns from the gag in his mouth, and he's got scars from the rope permanently seared into his arms and legs. He imagines being thrown around, tied up just like that on the Stone Table. His laughter peals out over the wolf's, and Peter and Orieus look over at him. And then, he remembers the blinding pain of the Witch's wand going through him, piercing every organ it could find. He remembers being dead mere hours after he was saved.

His laughter rings throughout the whole camp, and for a moment, the fighting stops, so they can listen to the laughter of their Just King.

And then, Edmund takes a step towards the wolf, closer than Peter had been aiming for just moments ago. There's death in his eyes and a smile on his lips.

"Wolf," Edmund says brightly. "I am a traitor, but you must be cleverer than that if you planned to attack my brother and get away with it." The wolf is silent. "What I mean is: that if you know anything at all, I'm so _glad_ in moments like this, that I was a traitor."

"Ed," Peter sighs. Edmund ignores him. He can't look away from the wolf, can't let him know that his heart is aching with every word he speaks.

"Turn around, wolf, just your head will do, if you try to run, my brother and my general will kill you," he promises. "Turn around and tell me what you see." The wolf turns his matted head and beholds the Stone Table, cracked, terrifying, vindictive. "What do you see, wolf?"

"A table I'm going to die on," he snarls at Edmund, and Edmund laughs again, sharp and bitter.

"No."

The wolf whips his head back around and snaps his jaw at Edmund. "What?"

"You will die," Edmund promises, taking another step closer. "But you will not die on that table."

"Ed…" Peter warns from behind him, but Orieus hasn't pulled Edmund back, so Edmund doesn't listen. This wolf must learn.

"That is the table Aslan died on, you remember," Edmund continues. This wolf must learn of what Aslan did, did not only for Edmund, but for his own mangy salvation as well. "When Aslan died on that Table, he died in my place. He died in the place of a traitor. He sacrificed himself on a table where traitors were sacrificed." Edmund takes another step forward, and even though his sword is dragging on the ground, the wolf backs up a step, his tail tucked under his legs. "He died for me, and he died for _you. _If this was the days of the Witch you fight for even still, she would have you up on that table without a second thought. You haven't betrayed her, but Narnia has spared your life, and you betrayed _Her_, and all traitors must perish." Edmund raises the tip of his sword a little, and a low whine escapes from somewhere deep within the wolf. "But not anymore. No one must die anymore, thanks to Aslan. And you went and threw that all away. I won't kill you on the Table, because you aren't _worth _it." Edmund brings up the sword a little higher, and brings it down upon the wolf.

There are three voices of protest, two terrified, one solemn and understanding.

"Your Majesty," Orieus repeats. "Clean your sword." It's an echo of the words Aslan said to Peter when he first killed the wolf, Maugrim, but Edmund doesn't know that.

Edmund turns away from the wolf's body, biting his lip, and wipes his sword clumsily on the grass. Orieus picks up the lifeless body and carries it gingerly.

Peter grabs Edmund roughly by his collar. "Come on, Ed," he says, shoving him forward, but he clings onto Edmund's arm as he propels them both towards the camp and the fighting, which is dying down now. Peter's hands are shaking just a little.

"Peter," Edmund says at last before they're in the dim light of the camp. His voice is low and hoarse. "Peter."

"Not now, Ed, okay," Peter says shortly. He sniffs anxiously. "_Christ_, Ed, not now."

"Why not now?"

"Edmund, please," Peter begs. Edmund stops, gnawing on his lip even harder now. He can taste his own blood in his mouth, from where his lip has split, or maybe it's the wolf's blood, from when he killed him. He doesn't know, and it makes him feel a little light headed thinking about whose blood he's got in his mouth, so he stops, sticking his bottom lip out as far as possible so he can't taste wonder about it any longer.

They step into the camp, and everyone stops when the kings, one of them dragged by his brother, and their general, carrying a lifeless body, step into the light. Orieus places the body on the ground at his feet and Edmund breaks free of Peter's grasp.

"Here is the body of your comrade, Beasts," he announces, and his young voice carries out in a weighty ring across the camp. "Know that this is what happens to those who attack the crown. Those captured tonight will not be returned, but flee now, and you escape with your filthy lives, and the body of a soldier, and that is all we can do for you."

One timid looking black dwarf emerges from the throng of Fell Beasts to retrieve the body. His beard is matted with leaves and blood and dirt and sweat, and his proud eyes glint up suspiciously at Edmund. He stops at the body, watching him closely. "You are vile," the dwarf spits. Peter tenses behind him, but Edmund smiles.

"So are you," he says. Edmund has been a bully long enough to know that both of those things are true. "And if you ever try to move against the crown again, it will be the last thing you or any of your soldiers do. I'm not kidding." The camp is so quiet, everyone can hear. No one seems to breathing. "It's more chances than you deserve."

The dwarf spits at Edmund's feet, and Edmund smiles wider. His face hurts from smiling so much. The dwarf drags the body of the wolf away, and they all stand there waiting as the Beasts' army disperses. For now, at least, they know they can go home.

When the camp is silent, the Narnians start moving again. There's always much to be done after a battle, but this time, the two young kings were told to go to bed, for as soon as the camp began to stir Edmund collapsed, right into Peter's arms, and he began to sob.


End file.
